


not If, but When

by stylusmaleficarum (cygnes)



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 21:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnes/pseuds/stylusmaleficarum
Summary: After speaking at a conference, Gavin avails himself of an opportunity. (Sexually.)





	not If, but When

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here]() on tumblr, for the prompt "celebrity/fan AU." 
> 
> Content warnings in endnote.

Gavin has learned the hard way, over a span of decades, that people don’t come to hear him speak with the intention of learning anything. They don’t want code or metrics or really anything numerically adjacent. What people pay for—and these days, what people will pay _a lot_ for—is the legend. The persona. Gavin Belson™, founder of Hooli, philanthropist and innovator. Close to the truth, but with the volume turned up.

It can all get very tedious.

He doesn’t do the college lecture circuit anymore. In part because they can no longer afford his rates, and in part because he doesn’t trust his staff at Hooli enough to leave them to their own devices for more than a few days. But also because he doesn’t have the patience for long-term engagements. He starts to go stir-crazy.

He went a little legitimately crazy on the last of his long lecture tours: he threw a pitcher (glass, not plastic) full of mineral water (chilled, no ice) at someone who asked a question so fantastically inane that he couldn’t help himself. Thankfully, this was all before smartphones were ubiquitous, so there was no video of the incident to go viral. It became an urban legend. One talk show host had brought it up a few years later, and Gavin had been able to smile and even laugh about it. Little more than a rumor. Easily written off as an exaggeration.

So now he does one or two lectures a year. At conferences, mostly. This one is on the East Coast and they only expect him to talk for half an hour, which is the best of all possible worlds. It’s almost like a vacation. He’s unlikely to meet anyone he’s tired of seeing and he only has to prepare a brief lecture, which is mostly someone else’s job. (They don’t want the numbers, after all. It’s hard for Gavin to keep track of what he’s supposed to care about these days.) He’ll go to a few other keynote speeches, more to be seen than to learn anything. No good intel ever comes from prepared talks at a venue like this. No, valuable information is only obtained by hook and by crook—cloak and dagger work happening back in the Valley. And Gavin’s in a different timezone. In a different state of mind. Free and clear.

Gavin is free, for instance, to take notice of two of the volunteers setting up for his talk. One short, baby-faced, slightly stout but not all the way to chubby; good blazer, good haircut, looks like he probably cries when he comes. The other tall, thin, wide-eyed; dressed crisply but cheaply, with careful but awkward posture, and the general air of someone who’d enjoy taking orders. He’ll wait and see how the lecture goes. It’s possible that one or both of them will prove to be grossly incompetent and he’ll lose all interest.

He’s not concerned about whether or not these young men will be interested in him. They invariably are, for one reason or another. And any reason can be leveraged. For every encounter, there is a tipping point, if the fulcrum is correctly identified at the outset.

The short young man leaves before the talk is over. Probably just another volunteer obligation, but it’s enough for Gavin to dismiss his initial interest in that one. The tall one stays, standing in back, hands clasped reverently before him. Like he’s praying (and oh, that’s nice). Eyes riveted, if not adoring. It’s difficult to tell from this distance.

The talk goes fine. He sticks to the script, which Hooli’s PR department will appreciate. It’s easier to smile and stay engaged when he has a plan of action. Gavin has always considered himself goal-oriented. After the talk (with no Q&A, as part of his terms in agreeing to come) he waits for the tall young man to approach him. He does, of course. When he’s close enough, Gavin reads his name tag. The game will be his if he makes the first move.

“Jared,” Gavin says. “Thank you for all your hard work.” Jared looks around like he’s not sure Gavin is talking to him.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry. My name is Donald, actually, there was a mix-up with the name tags when I got here, but—” he stops short. “It doesn’t matter. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Belson.” Jared-Donald says this reverently, too overcome by the sense of his own inferiority to offer Gavin his hand to shake.

“I’m not all that,” Gavin says. He knows he is. “Just a familiar name to put on the program.”

“No, really, everyone’s been talking about it since the conference started,” Jared says. (Might as well go with Jared. That’s the name put down in ink. Tangible, on the record. And how else can something be real?)

“Well, that’s very nice of you to say,” Gavin says. He knows how to play modest, even if he’s not often called on to do so; he knows it makes people trust him. “What made you decide to volunteer? College credit?” He hopes Jared isn’t actually that young. One has to draw the line somewhere.

“I just finished up an internship in D.C., actually,” Jared says. “I graduated last year.”

“Ah,” Gavin says, “a future senator. I’ll have to stay in your good graces.”

“My degree is in economics, actually,” Jared says. He seems embarrassed by his own correction. “I thought this conference would be a good networking opportunity. I’ve been thinking about moving back out West, but I haven’t committed to anything.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re missing out on most of the networking by volunteering,” Gavin says. He puts a hand on Jared’s back to steer him out of the room, which is being reset for another lecture by a different group of volunteers. Not too low on his back—nothing that would draw comment.

“It was the only way I could come,” Jared says. “Registration fees are waived for volunteers.”

“I can see about making a few introductions,” Gavin says. It’s not a lie. He is willing to do at least that much if things go well. “Are you staying at the hotel?”

“No, I—I’m staying at a youth hostel.” Jared tries to turn this admission around into something less pathetic than what it is, something more like an adventure: “It’s only twenty minutes away by bus, and there are lockers, so I don’t need to worry about anything being stolen! Which is more than I can say for some places I’ve lived.” He smiles beatifically.

_Jesus fucking Christ_ , Gavin thinks, _I’m hitting on some kind of Dickensian orphan._

“If you don’t want to miss the breakfast meet-and-greet tomorrow, you could stay with me. I have a whole suite,” Gavin says. There’s a beat of silence. He waits. Even if this is too much, too soon, he’s given Jared no blackmail material. If this conversation is recounted, all it will confirm is that Gavin is approachable and generous. That he takes an interest in the careers of bright and underprivileged young people.

“I’m an early riser,” Jared says at last. “As long as there are no major roadworks, I should be here in time.”

“Well, let me know if you reconsider.” He gives Jared his card. The one with his personal contact information. His personal cell number, even. Jared could make more trouble for him with that than with anything that’s passed between them so far.

Gavin spends the rest of the day waiting for a call. A call, a text, an email—something. He sits through two other presentations before taking off for an early dinner. He’s had several invitations to dinner from other speakers and some of the conference organizers and sponsors, but those would be about business. He has already fulfilled his main business-specific obligation for the weekend.

So he goes to dinner alone, to a restaurant with only one Michelin star, and does his best to enjoy it. He tries to practice mindfulness. He tries not to be angry that he’s been brushed off by some _nobody_. There’s no reason to be angry when he could have so many other people who are, objectively, better-looking and more interesting. (But the thing about those people is that they expect a certain level of respect, of autonomy, that the young men who adore him never do.)

Jared is waiting in the lobby when he gets back to the hotel. The last presentation of the day would have been forty-five minutes ago.

“Mr. Belson,” Jared says, wringing his hands. “I wasn’t sure if you were busy, so I didn’t want to call.”

“You waited for me,” Gavin says. He gives Jared a rather frank once-over. Jared is still wearing his name tag. The fact that he did wait has an undeniable appeal. Not enough to erase Gavin’s annoyance, but enough to twist it into a gentler kind of malice.

“Yes,” Jared says. “About what you said, I wanted to ask—”

“Let’s talk on the way,” Gavin says. The concierge is too conspicuously uninterested. Jared waits until the elevator doors are closed behind them. He catches on quick, which is another good sign.

“I wanted to ask,” he repeats quietly, “whether your offer was meant to be… transactional.” Not quite as innocent as he looks, then.

“Not as such,” Gavin lies. “If we don’t hit it off, you’re welcome to take the couch. No hard feelings.” He deliberately does not mention his offer of making introductions. Let Jared draw his own conclusion about whether he deserves that kind of career-making favor without doing something concrete to earn it.

The rest of the elevator ride is silent. No one else gets on, but anyone might, at any floor. Gavin doesn’t touch Jared at all until they’re in his suite, and even then, he restrains himself to a fleeting hand on Jared’s lower back.

“Can I get you a drink?” Gavin says.

“I don’t usually drink,” Jared says, eyes downcast as he sits primly on the couch. “But I guess this is a special occasion.” He dares a glance up at Gavin and smiles. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

What Gavin is having is Midleton’s 30 Year Old reserve, a 1969 vintage. If Jared doesn’t drink, and specifically if he doesn’t drink Irish whiskey, he won’t have the palate to appreciate it. Gavin pours two fingers for himself and one for Jared anyway. Jared takes a timid sip and winces. Then, unexpectedly, he knocks the rest of the glass back. Gavin can’t hold back a bark of astonished laughter.

“Normally I’d scold you for that,” Gavin says. He holds up his own glass. “This is meant to be sipped. Savored.”

“I thought it would be better to get it out of the way,” Jared says.

“Well, I’m not going to rush on your account,” Gavin says. He sits down on the couch next to Jared, close enough that their thighs touch and Gavin has to sling an arm over the back of the couch not to jostle him. Jared shifts a little before leaning tentatively against him.

“Gosh, you know, I think it’s hitting me already,” he says. “All I had to eat today was some trail mix. That probably wasn’t a good idea.”

“I can get you some water,” Gavin offers.

“No, I can get it,” Jared says. “Thank you for offering, though.” He stands and starts heading toward the bathroom.

“Hey,” Gavin says. He gestures at the kitchenette’s fridge when Jared turns back to him. “There’s water in there.”

“Tap water’s fine for me,” Jared says.

“You drank a couple hundred dollars’ worth of whiskey,” Gavin says. Jared’s eyes widen. He stands stock still. “I think you can handle a two dollar bottle of water.”

“If you insist,” Jared says.

“I do,” Gavin says. He savors Jared’s perfect and immediate acquiescence as he does the whiskey’s notes of tobacco and vanilla. Jared doesn’t need to be convinced; he just needs direction. Gavin spares a moment to wonder who went to the trouble of breaking Jared in, and then decides that he doesn’t care, as long as he gets to reap the benefits now. He watches Jared drink half a bottle of Voss in long swallows. He admires the pale column of Jared’s throat. Jared leaves the bottle on the counter and settles back in next to Gavin, close. “So what do you think?” Gavin says. “Are we hitting it off?”

“Mr. Belson,” Jared starts, and Gavin shushes him.

“Call me Gavin,” he says. “If we’re doing this. Are we?”

Jared leans over and kisses him. Softly, chastely, briefly. It’s all the answer Gavin needs. He sets the whiskey down on a side table and hoists Jared onto his lap. Good thing he ended up with this one, all told—he’d have had a harder time with the other young man, who probably weighed the same or a little less but was more compactly built. Jared’s proportions make him feel light. Light, and breakable.

Jared rearranges himself delicately, almost fussily, careful of his sharp angles. He knows what he’s doing. This is equally apparent when he goes back to kissing: firm, confident, yet undemanding. He makes little sounds of enjoyment that are not theatrical but do keep the wet sounds of their mouths from becoming overwhelming. And he doesn’t flinch or fidget when Gavin palms at his ass. He cants his hips, obliging. Practiced.

“Is this something you do professionally?” Gavin says. To Jared’s credit, he doesn’t play dumb.

“It’s not on my resume,” Jared says. “But it’s something I have done, at times.” He doesn’t seem ashamed. He also doesn’t seem eager to discuss it.

“What _is_ on your resume?” Gavin says. Jared starts to get up, glancing toward his bag, but Gavin clamps a hand on his hip and holds him in place. “You probably reformatted it six times before you came to this conference. Networking, right? You must know it by heart.”

Jared makes an admirable show of reciting his education, job history, and miscellaneous qualifications while Gavin ruts up against him. They’re both hard by the time Jared gets to his most recent work experience. Jared leans down to kiss Gavin again, and Gavin starts to unbuckle Jared’s belt.

“Wait,” Jared says, pulling back. “Wait. I don’t have any—”

“I do,” Gavin says, cutting him off. Condoms? Lube? Whatever Jared was going to say, Gavin probably does have it. That’s one of the advantages of having a private plane: no airport security to x-ray his bag and ask why, exactly, he has _that_. “Second thoughts?”

“No,” Jared says. “Not at all. I’m just used to feeling more prepared.” He runs his hands over Gavin’s shoulders, his upper arms, his chest. Smoothing the creases in his shirt. It seems like a nervous gesture.

“Want to use my shower?” Gavin says. “The water pressure’s good.” _Definitely better than whatever shithole you’ve been staying in_ , he doesn’t say, though he thinks it loudly. Up close, Jared smells like Dove soap undercut with the mineral tang of hard water. “It might help you relax a little.”

“Would you be joining me?” Jared says. Politely curious, all nervousness gone.

“Not yet,” Gavin says. He smiles in the way that Peter used to say made him look like a dirty old man. (Never mind that they were both young at the time, and Peter was still the only one he smiled at like that.) “Maybe later.”

Jared gets up a little shakily, one hand braced on the back of the couch. Gavin stays seated, watching him, until the door to the bathroom closes. Then he gets up and stands outside the door. He didn’t get to be where he is today by ignoring potential opportunities to collect useful information.

“Oh, Donald, what are you doing?” he hears Jared say. He’d completely forgotten Jared’s real name. It only took a few hours. “You can’t go to your volunteer shifts wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

Jared doesn’t know it yet, but that won’t be a problem. Gavin doesn’t intend to let him leave the suite for the rest of the weekend. Not with how promising Jared is proving to be. He’ll pay Jared’s registration fee after the fact—it can’t be more than five or six hundred dollars, and that’s pocket change. Less than what he’d be paying for Jared’s company under more conventional circumstances. And he can make up for not introducing him to anyone, too: nepotism is one of the many perks of being CEO. He can see to it that Jared gets a job at Hooli that will keep him nearby and give him a reason to be grateful.

Gavin waits until he hears the shower turn on to head into the bedroom. It never hurts to have a strategy in place.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for power imbalance (though Gavin is not yet Jared's boss), potential intoxication-related consent issues, mentions of past sex work, Gavin having generally exploitative attitudes toward sex.


End file.
